


hold me still (bury my heart next to yours)

by akosmia



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Past Abuse, spoilers for episode s08e02, well as fluffy as game of thrones could be
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-24
Updated: 2019-04-24
Packaged: 2020-01-31 08:54:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18587932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akosmia/pseuds/akosmia
Summary: He rests his forehead against hers, and she holds onto him, and he wishes they could stay like this for a lifetime - until they grow old, until time has forgotten them both, and the only trace of their existence will be just their ashes mixed together.-- or: Sansa and Theon share a moment before the end of everything





	hold me still (bury my heart next to yours)

**Author's Note:**

> i haven't really cared about got in ages and i spent most of the time watching just screaming at the screen, but then episode two happened and my heart was sold, so here's that. i know these two will break my heart next episode so i had to write something before anything could happen ✌🏻  
> also, English is not my first language, so im sorry if this sounds all too modern, I really tried but my last two braincells shut down for good when they try too hard

The lights are low in Winterfell this night, torches burning faintly as if they didn't really want to attract any more attention.

The eerie silence, so tense and real it feels almost like a living thing hanging in the air around them, beating frantically like another heart, makes Theon believe they're the only ones left in the whole world - which, they aren't, of course. The castle is brimming with life - peasants and soldiers and children and highborns, all huddled together from all the corners of the world in the idle, impossibile hope of enduring the long, endless darkness.

But still, as they walk the empty corridors of Winterfell, it feels like they're the only ones left, the rest of Westeros reduced to ashes and old, forgotten halls. It reminds him of old songs, the one he used to know what it feels like a lifetime ago when life was simple and he wasn't broken, and Sansa looks just like the stuff of stories - beautiful and magnificent, with eyes that spark something within his chest and a smile softer than silk.

But this isn't a song.

Maybe, maybe it will become one in the future, he thinks. Maybe something impossible will happen tonight and humanity will live. Maybe the night will end and the sun will rise again and people will sing songs and ballads about Winterfell, about the courage of its people, about all the heroes who'll die tonight. But nobody will sing about Theon, and nobody will remember the beauty of Sansa's smile when they'll be gone, and it the thought that haunts him like a ghost.

He tries to focus on the moment, on the presence right beside him. Sansa's steps are sure and grounded - she walks like the castle is the only safe place in the world, and it reminds him of their childhood, the flash of her sweet, innocent smile he could glimpse in the halls, a blur of auburn hair and fair skin that brushed against him in the corridors. It reminds him even of the _other_ time they were together at Winterfell, when life was not a song, but a living hell. He wonders how she can be so calm - for him, Winterfell holds the memories of the horrors he has suffered, never quite enough to make amends for what he did, a punishment never fit for his crimes, not quite as painful as he'd deserved. Those images are mixed with images of his childhood now, in a blur that takes his breath away.

Sansa's not curved on herself anymore and she's not trying to take as little space as possible to avoid attracting Ramsay's gaze. She's no frightened little bird now - now her spine is straight, her gaze is made of steel, and she carries herself around as if she had made an armor out of herself and if anyone will survive this terrible night, Theon thinks, then, of course it would be Sansa Stark, just by sheer will and stubborn, fierce determination.

It's only after a few minutes of walking in silence, that she speaks. She's been as quiet as he remembers, and he wonders if she's thinking about it - the immensity of death, the terror of the unknown, the vast black they can't even begin to understand. Theon does - it feels like it's everything he thinks about ever since he made that terrible mistake of betraying them all, long ago. A mistake he can't ever make amends for, no matter how hard he tries.

But Sansa - sweet, soft-spoken Sansa who has knocked the air out of his lungs more than once -, she turns to him and asks him, as simply as ever, "Why did you come back?"

Her voice is firm, but he can sense the emotions stirring just beneath her calm demeanor. He's seen the way her face had passed from stone to the sea of raging emotions as her eyes had settled on him, and he's heard the way she had breathed out against his shoulder, as if finally finding relief after so long.

He knows Sansa by now - and he knows the fragility beneath her armor, the fear beneath her calm, and he admires her for both.

"You could have joined your sister in the Iron Island. Jon… he said the dead can't swim," she says. "You could have been safe, there. Why did you come back?"

Oh. Sweet, loyal, unshakable Sansa - able to inspire people, to make them love her, to turn monsters and hopeless cases in heroes and princes. She truly is the stuff of songs and legends. How can he even begin to tell her that he came back for her? How can he even explain her that he owes it to her - to her family, to her home, to Sansa, who has grasped his hand and brought him out from misery and pain and hell?

"It was the right thing to do," he says, in the end, his eyes focused on the way the auburn of her hair would catch, as she moves, the light from the torch just behind her, making her look like a flaming goddess. She breathes out, and he knows she understands - honor, he thinks, is the legacy Ned Stark left behind. "After everything I've done… to your brothers, to your family … A good, honorable death at Winterfell, that's more than I can hope for".

A sad, pensive smile tugs at her lips, and she looks at him with such a fondness in the back of her eyes that he's taken aback again. "Maybe I don't want you to die," she confesses, then, her voice so low almost as if she were whispering a secret.

It comes to him as a surprise. As far as he remembers, he's never been welcome anywhere - not here, not on Pyke, not even in his own mind after everything that's happened. But Sansa has smiled at him with tears in her eyes and has embraced him as if she had missed him, and now she tells him she doesn't want him to die, and for the first time, it feels like home.

And home is not Winterfell or Pyke or someplace else in the world. Home is Sansa's sad smile, the way she looks at him with warmth in her eyes, watery from the tears she's stubbornly holding back, and the way she shudders, afraid of making herself vulnerable again.

He lets out a deep breath and flashes her a brief, soft smile. "Then you'd be the first," he tells her. She doesn't laugh, and he sighs, his fingers aching to touch her. He has to fight the urge to reach out and take her hands into his - he's not worthy of it, he knows it, but still, trying to stop his traitorous heart is harder than he'd expected. "I've made my peace with it a long time ago, my lady. I'm not afraid of dying".

_Not for you_.

Her lips tremble and she looks away, trying to steel herself again, and keep her emotions in check. "We've survived impossible things," she reminds him, and swallows as if to prevent herself from sobbing.

Theon smiles. "We did. And you will, my lady," he tells her, with all the surety he can muster right now. Sansa's eyes snap to him again, and she looks like on the cusp of saying something - of uttering a protest, of being as defiant and stubborn as ever - but Theon steps in and finally, finally, takes her hand into his, quieting his frantic thoughts. Her skin is soft, and when he touches her, Sansa holds her breath, but doesn't pull him away. "Listen to me. You're going to be alright. I promise you, this night will end and the sun will shine again and you'll live a long, pleasant life".

It sounds like lie even to his own lips, and he knows Sansa won't believe him - she's not the girl she used to be anymore, and promises and whispered things are the stuff of songs and stories, but she doesn't hold it against him and doesn't call him out on his lie.

Her fingers grasp fiercely his as she clasps his hand. "I was hoping we could share the most of it, though," she confesses, then, playing along with him, her voice so small and low he could almost miss it, were his senses not attuned to her. Her eyes are wet and her lips are pressed together in a sad, tentative smile, and she's shivering - and he doesn't know if it's from the effort of keeping the tears at bay or from fear for his reaction.

_Oh._

Sansa - sweet, smart, fierce Sansa, so ready to die, so determined to live even back then when there was nothing worth living for. He wants to tell her he's here because of her - he wants to tell her he's _Theon_ again because of her. She was the one that dragged him out of the shadows all of her own, she was the one who gave him his name back, she was the one who delved deep in the darkness that Reek was and climbed out with the few sparks of Theon Greyjoy that were still left. He wants to tell her that she's the only home he's ever known, that her embrace is the only redemption he'll ever need, that the smile she has gifted him is the last memory he'll think about when death will come.

There's no time to explain her all of that, so he just leans in and kisses her.

It's barely a kiss, honestly. Theon has kissed his fair share of women in what he remembers as a previous existence, and he's been rough and demanding or slow and deliberate and teasing, but he's never kissed anyone with such an adoration, as if he was worshipping her. It's more of a brush of lips than a real kiss, and he's afraid of overstepping - a pilgrim terrified of desecrating a goddess. His mouth barely touches hers, but she's so _soft_ , and she melts so sweetly into his touch, her hands still grasping his, her body yielding easily and willingly. She makes the gentlest little sound when his lips brush against hers, and lets out a wistful sigh when he pulls away, her eyes slowly fluttering open.

She's breathtaking upclose - the fire of her hair, the limpid sky of her eyes, the surprise on her features, it all comes to him as a knife to the heart and for the first time in years he doesn't want to die.

He doesn't know how to deal with that.

He clears his throat, and when she doesn't immediately speak, he steps back, his heart in his throat, afraid of having misread the situation - afraid of having touched her the way she didn't want to be touched, after he vowed himself to never let her suffer again.

( _Sansa, terrified and full of bruises, her body an altar to pain, clinging to him for dear life and begging him to help her, and-)_

His gaze falls on their joined hands - her longs fingers wrapped around his. "Forgive me, my lady," he whispers, guilt, like a second nature, in his voice. "I should have not dared-"

Sansa doesn't let him finish his apologies - she grabs him by the shoulders and pulls him a heart-stopping, magnificent kiss. His armor clashes violently against the reinforced plates in her dress, letting out a dull sound, but she doesn't seem to mind, because her hands find their way to his face and sink into his hair to bring him closer, and he's lost, lost, lost, and he doesn't care about being found ever again.

The kiss is bruising - she'd demanding and hard and frantic, all teeth and lips and desperation, and Theon realizes with a pang that maybe this is the first time Sansa kisses someone just because she wants to. It's this thought that spurs him on - he finally embraces her, one hand coming to rest at the small of her back, the other brushing gently at the place where her jaw meets her neck, cupping her face. He doesn't stop her, he doesn't slow her, he doesn't turn this kiss into something softer - he lets her have this, and him, however she wants, her fingers curving around his hair, her rapid heartbeat pressed against his own, her desperation and fierceness seeping into his bones.

When she finally pulls away, breathing heavily, her lips are as red as her hair, and she's blushing. It comes to him as a surprise, the notion that she can still be flustered after everything she's gone through, and his heart beats faster at the sight.

"Apologies, I must have been a bit… _rough_ ," she murmurs, her eyes falling to his lips again before finding his gaze. She gives him another sad, pensive smile, and his heart aches, and if his grip on her back tightens, she doesn't seem to mind. "I must confess I lack what you may call experience".

His thumb strokes her cheek, and her eyelashes brush against her cheekbone as she closes her eyes for a moment. "You have nothing to apologize for," he tells her, then. He swallows his heart down when her eyes flutter open again, and she leans into his touch, nuzzling her face against his palm. The trust she puts into him - the vulnerability she's showing him, it takes his breath away, because he knows how much it costs her. And yet, she does it anyway and Theon is not worthy and he will never be, but somehow Sansa doesn't care. "You can have anything you want, my lady. Whatever I have, whatever I _am…_ for what it's worth, it's already yours".

Her lips part in surprise, but no sound comes out of them. He can read the tide of emotions that crashes upon her in the back of her eyes, and her hands tighten their grip on his hair. "Theon…" she murmurs, so sweetly, her lips a breath away from his, so close he can almost taste his name on her mouth.

His fingers come to brush a strand of her red hair away from her forehead, with all the kindness and devotion he can pour into the gesture, then gazes down at her. "I thought you knew," he says, sweetly, with a smile. Her breath catches on her lips, and he can hear the frantic beat of her heart in the space between them. He wonders if she can hear his, too. "Long ago, I told you I would have died to get you all the way to the Wall. I meant that back then, and I mean it now. I'd die to keep you safe tonight. I have nothing to offer you except for my life, and it's already yours. I came back for _you_ , Sansa".

Her name on his lips tastes like adoration, and she breathes out heavily at this. Her eyes are full of tears, but she doesn't cry, and he can read every single emotion passing fleetingly on her features - shock, surprise, disbelief, and some sort of fondness and affection that seem to tug at some unknown string of his heart.

She doesn't mention any of it.

"You're a _fool_ ," she manages to say, in the end, her voice broken from the sobs she's clearly trying to hold back. She's on the verge of tears, and yet, as she speaks, she smiles, and lets out a breathless chuckle, defiant and stubborn and magnificent all at once and Theon - Theon has never loved anything like his life depended on it, but he thinks he loves Sansa Stark the way only a broken, hopeless man can love her. He loves her like a blind man loves the flickering light of a candle, with all the desperation and the devotion in his soul, knowing it's there but never expecting anything in return, never expecting the light to think him worthy, never expecting the light to love him back.

So he smiles and caresses her face, with the utmost kindness, as if worshipping her. "I never claimed otherwise," he tells her and-

\- and she _laughs_. It's broken and breathless and she's trying so hard not to cry, but she's _laughing_ , and Theon doesn't remember the last time he's ever heard her laugh. Maybe they were still children, and there was fresh snow in her hair and she was running away from Arya and her sticky fingers, who was set to destroy Sansa's pretty dress.

It feels like a lifetime ago.

She laughs, her shoulders shaking, and then she rests her forehead against his, closing her eyes for a moment, and Theon lets her have this - he puts his arms around her, his hands on her back, and he breathes her in, trying to imagine a world where they're not broken and he's not going to die. A world where those summer kids, with joy in their eyes, could live, without tragedy stabbing them in the back.

"Kiss me again, Lord Theon," she says, in the end, her eyes fluttering open again just to look at him, the ghost of a playful smile on her lips. "Make me forget".

He wishes he could - he wishes he could erase all her sorrows and pain, the past, the uncertainty of the future, the terrible, endless night in front of them. He can't, of course. But he pretends to try anyway, because he'd do anything for her. "As my lady commands," he whispers and then, dutifully, he kisses her.

It's softer this time. She lets him guide her, her hands winding in his hair again, her lips opening so sweetly and slowly, as if to savor every moment. It feels as deep as the sea, as relentless as the tide, and he lets himself be dragged under, her mouth so warm, her hands so firm. It's an old, practiced dance he hasn't felt compelled to act in a lifetime, but it feels as natural as breathing, even when everything else about him doesn't - he puts his hand on the curve of her hips and she presses her body into his, his bottom lip caught between hers, and for the first time in years he feels a pang of desire somewhere deep within in his chest, like a knife to the heart.

He wishes they'd have the time. The proofs of Ramsay's existence are dead and gone, faded with the bruises he has left on them both, but he'd erase even the memory of them - he'd rewrite them, rewrite her body and her skin and her soul, turning pain into pleasure, turning hatred and violence into love and adoration. He'd worship her body, kissing her breasts, counting every single one of her ribs with his lips, climbing down her body like a ladder, and then he'd sink to his knees and he'd adore her the way she deserves to be adored.

Sansa clings to him when he breaks away to breathe, her fingers digging into his shoulders even above the layer of his armor. He rests his forehead against hers, and she holds onto him, and he wishes they could stay like this for a lifetime - until they grow old, until time has forgotten them both, and the only trace of their existence will be just their ashes mixed together.

A horn blares in the silence, and for a final, terrible moment everything is still - the world suspended in a single instant, on the precipice of doom. Then, it comes alive again in a cacophony of sounds, and Theon knows he must go, and he'll probably never return, but Sansa's arms are so warm, and her embrace feels like home, and he never, ever wants to leave.

"Come back," she whispers against his lips. "Come back to me".

Her words seem to be ripped out of a song, the fervent whisper of a lover, the stuff of stories and old tales. _I loved a maid as red as autumn_ _with sunset in her hair,_ he remembers the words from a lifetime before, and he presses a kiss to her forehead, closing his eyes for a moment. The dull sound of her heartbeat, the warmth of her hands on his shoulders, the press of her body against his - he commits all of this to his memory, and when death will come, he'll be ready.

The world around them erupts in a chaos of screams and noises, but for the first time in his life, Theon is at home.

 


End file.
